


A Quiet Day

by WatTheCur



Category: The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Child Neglect, Gen, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatTheCur/pseuds/WatTheCur
Summary: Manda, a young receptionist at the Santa Carla County Health Centre, receives a pair of unusual patients.
Kudos: 5





	A Quiet Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece that I did not actually finish. I had intended for it to be longer, but I lost motivation midway through. Nevertheless, I believe it is acceptable as complete work, in it’s current form. I hope you will forgive me for the terribly unoriginal title for the doctor’s surgery in this fic, but place names have never been my strong point.

It was a slow day at Santa Carla County Health Centre. Unusually so. Even when the place wasn’t bustling, an ill body would drift in on the hour, every hour. A seized joint here, a swollen belly there. Today, though, Manda was struggling to remember when the phone rang last. The stillness of the room beyond her window unsettled her, stupidly she thought. The idea of a calm before some hideous arrival nipped at the back of her mind. Her unoccupied brain offered vivid flickers of a figure, red and dripping like a man-shaped candle, hobbling through the door. An elderly lady weaving desperately from one wall to the other, under the weight of a fallen gargoyle, glaring at Manda from it’s seat in the shattered crown of the unfortunate woman’s skull. Irritated by such fancies, Manda snatched a dry biro from her pen pot and began to dig under her nails, scraping those pictures away with the grit. She glared at her gratitude to herself for shelving that bottle of red polish the night before, and leaving her nails bare and pink. 

Four fingers along, a rattle at the door startled her from her excavation. Before she could even imagine another walking horror, she was peering through her window at a small child emerging into the waiting room. She judged them to be anywhere between the ages of five and seven. They had a flushed, pudgy face and knotted hair down to their waist. A woven band around their head pulled it tight and slick against their scalp. They were swallowed by a garment that was not quite a dress. A nightshirt, Manda thought at first, before the mandala elephant on the child’s front shone out at her. A kaftan, maybe. The child scrutinised the room with black, cherry pip eyes that reminded Manda of those on a bull terrier pup. They fell on her only for a second before the child spun around and began to drag something through the door. 

Manda watched as the little body heaved and snorted with mesmerising determination. The tiny feet, booted with grubby faux sheepskin twisting as they tried to brace themselves against the flecked tiles. Just as Manda shook herself and rose to exit her glass cell, she caught sight of the rusted handle that shot through the door with a mighty yank from the young visitor that nearly jolted them to the floor. After stepping out into the waiting room, Manda saw a dark shape at the end of the handle through the frosted glass, catching painfully on the recently painted doorframe. 

“Here, let me me help you.” She hurried over to open the door wider, amused curiosity a soothing balm where her gory daydreams had itched. 

With a squeak and a rattle the child’s burden finally rolled in easily on the smooth tiles. A cart, built sparingly out of unpolished planks with thick, rubber wheels, logged with sand. Later, Manda would grimace at the grimy smears it left behind, but now all she could look at was the load. She couldn’t see this second child’s face, as they had curled up deep into their dark, greasy tresses and layers of tie dyed drapery. Two knobby wrists and narrow hands with scabbed fingertips were the only skin visible, clasped over their hidden knees. Before Manda could open her mouth to greet the ball of hair and cotton, their chauffeur’s voice cut her off. 

“He’s sick.” The first child had a frog in their throat, and a thick lisp that made them sound like they trying to speak around a gum ball. Manda got her first close look at them and saw the webs of matted hair clinging to their puffed, wet cheeks and throat. The fretful glint in those black eyes that were flying over her hair, her shoulders, her jewellery, everywhere but her face. She wondered how far they had brought this sick boy, and if he could possibly be sicker than they looked. “He’s sick.”   
Manda bobbed down in front of them, as they remained fixated on her hair. 

“Okay, Honey, alright. Are your mommy, or daddy with you?” When the child only frowned at her left earring, she licked her lips and rephrased. “Do you have a grown up with you, huh?” They shook their oily locks and shuffled in place, awkwardly, as if she had asked them to do a silly dance for her. The movement pushed a gust of stale, sickly odour her way. She rubbed her nose to stop herself wrinkling it. “Alright, Hon. Could ya tell me your name?” 

“Edgar!” He bit out. 

“Okay, Edgar. And what’s your friend’s name?” 

The little boy began to rock from foot to foot, his tatty boots creaking with each shift. He rubbed his knuckles together like carding brushes. “My friend’s name.”

“That’s ri-“

“He’s not my friend, he’s my brother!…His name is Alan.” 

“Oh!” Edgar and Alan. Manda had to grin a little at that, despite the many, far more outlandish titles listed on the centre’s register. Santa Carla was the breeding ground for the proud individual. “Not got any ravens on your tails, huh?” That made Edgar still a moment, his brow pinching ever tighter. She supposed she had not expected him to get it. “Well, Edgar, how about we make an appointment for Alan, hm?” She watched his fists unfurl and tangle together, fitfully.

“He’s sick!” He repeated. “You gotta help him!” 

“He will get help, Hon.” Her fingers tingled with the instinct to reach out and hold him, but she held back. “I just have to ask a you and Alan few questions, get it sorted out properly, okay?”

Edgar continued to fidget, blinking at the floor beneath his creaking feet, but said no more. Manda decided to take that as acceptance. Remembering Alan, she pivoted on her toes to face him. She found the patient nodding his heavy head, softly, as if to music. It took her a moment to realise he was nodding in time to the sound of Edgar’s boots.

“Alan?” The nodding ceased, a windup toy whirring to a stop. “Is there really a boy under all that lovely hair?” One of the hands was raised, haltingly from it’s comfortable spot across his knees and the scabby fingers (he must chew them, she thought) flexed in a feeble wave. A pebble of warmth dropped in Manda’s chest. “Oh, there you are.” She did not think he could see her smile, but she could not have stopped herself. “Alan, I’m going to ask you and Edgar some questions, before you see the doctor. Is that alright?” 

Suddenly, Edgar appeared at Alan’s side. He put a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder, but quickly snatched it back when Alan twitched. After eyeing him a second, he realised he had leaned on his brother’s hair. He gently, but surely parted the locks at Alan’s shoulder, before resting his hand on the uncovered spot. He leaned in and whispered to Alan, louder than he likely intended; 

“You gonna speak to her?” Alan seemed to think, motionless for a moment, before raised his hand, again and wagged a finger at Edgar. “Ask me the questions.” Edgar commanded, though it seemed to Manda more to himself, than to her. Manda stood up, straightening the sleeves of her blouse with playful professionalism. 

“Very well, Edgar. would you both like to come a take a seat?”


End file.
